


Pointe Work

by iniquiticity



Series: cygnus [1]
Category: American Revolution RPF, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ben Tallmadge's Lead-Weighted Anxiety, Boss/Employee Relationship, Come Eating, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Polyamorous Character, Possessive Behavior, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink, Semi-Public Sex, Somewhat Nefarious Relationship Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-13 00:21:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7954801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iniquiticity/pseuds/iniquiticity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He read the New Yorker’s mocking preview of the show, and their meandering thoughts of what it means, that George Washington - famous retired dancer and even more famous choreographer - is putting on Swan Lake with about three women.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pointe Work

**Author's Note:**

> it is difficult to express how much work the incredible [Fickle_Obsessions](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Fickle_Obsessions) did to make this a real thing. thank you so much. 
> 
> please note that i am not a professional performer of any type, so I apologize for any factual inconsistencies in this story. also, while it is not required, reading up on [Swan Lake](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Swan_Lake#Roles), if you are not already familiar with the show, might be useful. this work was inspired almost entirely by [this gifset](https://iniquiticity.tumblr.com/post/149712192219/benjamin-tallmadge-is-a-ballet-dancer-au-discuss).
> 
> as always, i can be reached for further questions, comments, or concerns on tumblr at [iniquiticity,](http://iniquiticity.tumblr.com) or on twitter at [@picklesnake](https://twitter.com/picklesnake).

Ben buzzes his door at 2:38 AM. He's already awake, thanks to a tense phone call warning of Ben’s arrival, by Ben's roommate. It must be bad, if the roommate is alerting him in advance. He usually doesn't go over well with friends.

George pads down from his bedroom and steps, briefly, into the kitchen. He keeps the mocking press on the refrigerator to keep the pilot light of fury going in his stomach. They think it's a hacky gimmick? He'll fucking show them gimmick. He's seen Ben dance. He knows the grace of his boys. _Tacky._ He hisses out a low, secret growl.

He grits his teeth just thinking about it and continues down the steps to the foyer of the brownstone. There's an old itch in his knee, from a repaired ACL, from one show or another. Martha's put a calendar next to the door, so everyone who leaves their apartment is reminded of this day. They're at day zero: PRESS PREVIEW. He read the New Yorker’s mocking preview of the show, and their meandering thoughts of what it _means_ , that George Washington - famous retired dancer and even more famous choreographer - is putting on Swan Lake with about three women. He practically ripped the magazine apart at their mockery of Ben, his Benjamin, his Odile, his pretty swan, his lead. It's practically unbearable.

He shakes these thoughts from his mind and opens the door. Even adding the cheery foyer entranceway to the flickering streetlight, Ben looks awful. _He's thrown up from from anxiety twice, so make sure bathroom is respectable,_ Ben's roommate had said. Ben has deep shadows under his eyes and slumped shoulders and is wearing a stained, old-looking t-shirt with grey sweatpants with a hole in the knee. Ben looks up at him, desperately needy, and then without caring he presses himself into George's front, burrowing his face in George's old Richmond Ballet shirt. He takes huge gulps of air, like he's an addict desperate for the smell of worn cotton.

George reaches up over him and shuts the door, and then he wraps his arms around Ben's shoulders and rubs his back. Ben sags in his arms.

"Hello, beautiful," George says, into Ben's hair. It's freshly cut and still smells like salon shampoo. "I'm here, and I got you."

"I can't do this," Ben murmurs into his shirt, "I can't do this, I can't do this, I can't do this. I'm going to fuck everything up. This is it, this is going to be it, we're both going to be ruined...."

"Shhh," George coos, and he presses a tender little kiss to Ben's ear, "You're going to be the most amazing dancer anyone has ever seen. People are going to be talking about this performance for hundreds of years. You know just as well as I do that you're more capable than anyone else in the world, for this."

"I don't know why you believe in me. I fell every time but once during rehearsal."

"I believe in you because I know you're the best." George takes a step back, and Ben only reluctantly lets him go. "And no one saw those rehearsals, so they don't exist. They are nothing. And the press is a bunch of mutated slimes, anyway."

Ben laughs the saddest laugh. "A bunch of mutated slimes that could make us or break us. Fuck, what if I blow it?" Then, if possible, his face fell further, "I could ruin you. If I..."

"Ben," George says, more firmly this time, and Ben's eyes snap to him, conditioned for obedience to his tone, "You are not going to blow it. No one knows how capable you are like I do. You are going to perform the dance of your life for this show. And you are going to be the most graceful, marvelous, beautiful, magnificent dancer anyone has ever seen."

Ben tries to keep his gaze on George's, but he pulls away, staring at his feet. "I'm going to be sick," he says, and slides past Washington, and up the steps with a familiarity of knowing his surroundings, and then into the bathroom. George follows, a little quicker than leisurely, listening to the sound of retching. He takes a detour, and he studies Ben from the bathroom doorframe, holding a glass of water and a Xanax. Ben manages, slowly, to stand back up - he looks a little less sallow and green now, and he takes both without questioning.

"Sleep with me," George says. Ben nods, and lets George shuffle him to the bedroom and onto the bed. His boy looks small within the sheets, and George shakes his head, a little flame of warm affection flickering into existence in his stomach. Ben sits up and looks at him as he crawls next to him, then arranges them with Ben's head on his chest. Ben's fingers trace the faded design on his shirt. The Xanax might take a few minutes to kick in, but Ben's already got the placebo effect of taking it, of being in George's huge bed, of being so close.

"I don't know if I can do it," Ben mumbles, finally, like a confession.

"I know you can it," George replies, and gives Ben's shoulder a firm squeeze, "And I say that you can, so there shouldn't be any question about it."

“That's right,” Ben says into his chest. “You say it, so it's true. I can do it.”

“You are going to be the best dancer that any of those two-bit idiots have ever seen.”

“I am going to be the best dancer any of those two-bit idiots have ever seen.”

“Good.”

George gives Ben a little tap on the shoulder. Ben looks up at him with terrified eyes, like George is about to tell him he’s done something wrong. But George just uses the space to toss his shirt off and settle under the covers, then peels the sheets further away for Ben to wriggle under. Ben clings close to him, though the drug’s evened out the rabbit pulse of his heart.

“Um, George,” Ben murmurs, “I know I'm not….”

“I thought we agreed you’re best dancer on planet,” George says, with an air of resolution, and flicks the light off.

Ben shuffles against him, and George feels a warm hand on his legs, creeping. The fingers are soft, teasing up his bare thigh, inside his boxers. “I just wanted to… thank you. If you want. For this. Thing.”

George could not deny, of course, that Ben was very good at more than dancing, and had become better with practice in the time they had been working on the show. They had not even started in the _beginning_ of the show, because Ben had come in as _corps de ballet_ , and had risen through sheer willpower, a tendency for overwork, his beautiful eyes, and his urge to please. Ben had bent to him easy and soft. Tender. Wonderful.

“Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life,” George murmurs, stroking his hair. “So I want to do what you want, today, now. So if you want. But I think it’s better if you try and get some sleep.”

The hand on his thigh disappears. Ben wriggles against him again, trying to get comfortable, so George shifts them both, so he’s curled around Ben as a big spoon. “I’ll get some sleep,” Ben says, and his arm wraps around George’s forearm and pulls it close to his stomach.

“You’ve made me very proud already, you know,” George says, a breath into his ear. Ben sighs a low, content sigh, and George can feel some of the tension leave his back. “You’ve worked so hard for this, and endured so much. And your rehearsals were extraordinary. You’re beautiful and you’re an extraordinary dancer, and I am very lucky to have found you.”

“I’m lucky to have found _you_ ,” Ben mutters, and then he turns in George’s arms and kisses him chastely. “You made me. Without you I’d just be --”

“Still beautiful, and graceful, and extraordinary,” George cuts him off, and traces his cheekbone with the pad of his thumb, “Just not my Odette.”

Ben looks away, and George knows he’s blushing if even if the dark hides it. “I like being your Odette,” he says, and then he turns back around and resettles himself in George’s arms. “Ok. I’m going to sleep now, for real. Promise.”

George kisses the back of his head.

 

***

 

Ben is still sleeping when George wakes up. He’s a lot less tense when he isn’t conscious, George thinks, chuckling to himself. But he keeps still, lets the boy sleep. He’s going to need it, after all.

A little while later his bedroom door creaks open a little, and Martha appears, backlit by the light in the hallway. She makes the gesture of a coffee cup with her hand; George shakes his head, as little as he can. Martha takes a step inside, studying the two of them. She grins a fond little grin at them, and shuts the door when she leaves.

When Ben finally does wake up, he’s groggy and half-conscious. He rolls himself over in George’s arms and presses himself against George's body. George can feel his dick through his worn sweatpants, half-hard from some secret dream. Usually, that energy’s better used for his dancing - get Ben nice and worked up, panting and sweating and biting his lips, and tell him to keep that adrenaline for the stage. But he has a very strong feeling that the last thing Ben is going to need today is more energy, and perhaps it might be better to let him burn it off.

Keeping Ben in the right state of mind is one of George’s favorite things. He’s delicate, even if there’s a steel core under the doe eyes. There’s a scale, always tipping, and George is always adding weights to even it out. A _you’re worthless and stupid_ here, a _I’ve never seen anything more beautiful than you_ there. A tender touch on one end and a scowl on the other. He draws his fingers tenderly down Ben’s arm, and Ben sighs a little half-awake sigh at the touch. Then, he flexes his thigh against Ben’s cock, and Ben moans low at the feel of it, grinds his hips down against George’s firm muscle. It’s so unusual to see Ben so calm and relaxed, letting himself do as he likes. Ben humps him without thinking, lazy. George’s hand sneaks into Ben’s briefs and teases the pads of his fingers over the well-muscled curve of Ben’s ass, idle and pleasant. This is a good morning, for the day that could be the end of their careers. He’d retire. Ben -- well. Who knows, with Ben?

His mind drifts, calmed by their idle intimacy. He thinks about Day - 8, maybe? - when he thought the whole project would crumble before it began. Maybe it _was_ impossible to teach men to dance en pointe. They weren’t capable of moving with the same grace women were, they said.

But then he’d seen Ben in the corner, pushing himself up perfectly on his toes, the fury and determination written across every line in his face. He wasn’t _small_ , but his strength was wrapped up in him. Lean, with those tender eyes and soft lips. Washington still remembers the line of his thoughts, at that moment. All at once:

What a beautiful thing. Now that’s a swan. He’s in _my_ cast.

Then, Ben had looked at him with all his adoring, intimidated terror. _Ben. Ben Tallmadge, Mr. Washington. It’s an honor to be part of your show._

It was in any dancer’s best interest to be malleable to his or her coach, and driven to improve when given suggestions, sometimes in the form of _wow, am I paying a bloated elephant for this role?_ and other times in the form of _We will train these rebellious man-hips of yours if it’s the last thing I do._ It was in a dancer’s best interest to be driven by praise, sometimes in the form of _God, I’ve never seen anything so beautiful,_ and sometimes just the right look, dark eyes admiring. George had never met anyone who so embodied those traits.

George had not believed in god for a long time, but it seemed impossible that Ben had been designed by random chance to play this role. George had never met anyone who worked harder when beat down, who pushed himself more intensely for a morsel of a compliment, whose whole world seemed to be narrowed down to doing what George wanted and exactly as he wanted it.

Ben’s hitching breathing as George adjusted his hips and straightened his spine. Ben’s face flushing red when George spoke into his ear about grace and elegance. Ben’s trembling thighs, when George touched them.

Ben was as soft as clay, to him. He saw what he had been given and melted it down, and with the scraps built a new, more beautiful thing. Ben was properly grateful: with the delicate arches of his feet, flexed to hold his weight; with his long, powerful arms, held elegantly out from his body; with his undying drive to improve for George, the way he stood after every fall and wrapped every blister and kept going; with his mouth, warm and sweet on George’s skin, as George knew it was going to be, as George had wanted it.

He comes back to the moment. Ben grinding against him more furiously, his face tight with familiar tension. George gives his ass a firm squeeze, and Ben moans, a shiver of pleasure running down his spine.

“Good morning, my beautiful swan,” he murmurs, low into Ben’s hair, “How do you feel?”

Ben nods, as if that’s an adequate answer, and presses a quick kiss to his chest. George lets his hand slide, brushes fingers against Ben’s hole, and Ben whimpers against him and grinds harder. “Please,” Ben breathes, desperate, “I need you.”

George shushes him softly, and then he wriggles out of his position as Ben’s humping post, shushes him again when he complains. He settles Ben onto his his back, pulls the pushed-down sweatpants and the worn shirt off him. Then he crawls on top, on his hands and knees. Ben stares up at him with those pretty eyes. George curses under his breath, then pulls his own half-hard cock out of his boxers and arranges him both in the circle of his fist. Ben’s eyes practically roll back into his head with pleasure, but he recovers, though he’s impressively still.

Waiting for George to tell him what to do.

George practically purrs in delight, and Ben catches it, smiles his pretty, obedient smile.

“You’re so good,” George says, in reward, and Ben’s hips twitch with the praise, “My beautiful Odile. My perfect, amazing thing. You’re so wonderful. I’m very pleased.”

Ben nods again. Keep still. Looks at him like he’s the world.

“Do you want to come all over yourself for me?” George asks, stroking them both. It feels so good, his hand, the hot throb of Ben’s cock, his boy under him. “Is that what you’d like? Get yourself all dirty, so I can clean you up? Would you like it if I came all over your gorgeous skin?”

“Yes, god, please, I want that,” Ben replies, and he’s trying so hard not to move.

“I want that too,” George replies, and he bends his head to give Ben the kiss that he so desperately needs. He tastes that pretty, sweet mouth. “Go on,” he says, to those slick lips, “Do whatever you can to come for me.”

George’s words draw Ben to action, get his hips pumping as he fucks George’s fist, the slide of sensitive skin on skin and in the firm hold of his palm. Ben pulls George’s mouth back to him as he does it, kisses him desperately, begs George to put his tongue in his mouth. George does, because Ben wants him to. Ben writhes against him, lost to the hot throes of his pleasure, fingers digging desperately into the sheets and hips pistoning until comes with a sharp groan, spilling white all over himself and losing whatever resemblance to a rhythm that he had. George keeps the hold on him as he works himself, and Ben’s face goes tight with the overstimulation of it. Ben’s beautiful, his beautiful swan, his precious thing, his lead, his pretty boy --

He adds to the mess across the pale chest with a gasp. He gives himself a few more strokes, just to milk every inch of pleasure out of himself. He catches Ben’s gazes as he pants, and those eyes are adoring and grateful.

“You’re so beautiful,” George says, and Ben smiles a little smile. “Here, let’s switch.”

He settles back onto the bed and pulls his willing, filthy boy onto his lap. He collects some of their mixed come on his fingers, and Ben opens his mouth and lets George tenderly feed him. He sucks on George’s dirty fingers like they’re covered in ambrosia. This task done, George bows his head and bends his back to lick any remaining come that he can find off Ben’s bare chest. Ben’s young and virile, and his cock takes interest, and for a few moments George considers laying Ben down and eating out his sweet ass until Ben comes all over himself again. He holds back, though. Can’t be too relaxed. They do have a show. It’s all about equilibrium, after all.

Ben curls up against his chest, warm and satisfied and content with George’s arms around him. George murmurs into his hair, tells him how magnificent he is, how proud George is of him.

Martha knocks on the door again, and this time George nods when Martha makes a coffee gesture. She shakes her head and sighs softly at Ben half-asleep. He chuckles, and blows her a kiss in response.

 

***

 

Martha lets Ben sits in the front seat.

“It’s your big day, after all,” she says, and gives him a little hug, before they get in the car. Ben’s starting to look queasy at the thought already. George wishes someone had invented a 3-hour Xanax.

They’re not the first ones to the theatre, but it’s close. Most of the lights are still off, Ben turning them on as he sees them. The backstage of the theatre is set with costumes and chairs and the sprawling miscellanea of professional dance. George lets Ben take the lead through the hallways and can hear the boy mumbling to himself as he meanders over to his dressing room, which has not yet been bedecked with the flower bouquets that George knows he's been sent.

“Do you want me to stay with you?” he asks, watching Ben dump himself into his chair and study himself in the mirror. The dressing room has the thrown-together quality of being recently assigned.

Ben looks up at him, and for a moment it looks like he might say yes. “I think I’m good for now,” he says, and runs a hand over his head, “I’m just going to listen to some music and relax until we start rehearsals. Is there anything you need from me?”

“Try to stay relaxed,” George says, and steps into the dressing room to press a kiss to Ben’s cheek. “My goal is for you to not get sick at all today.”

Ben laughs at that, and leans into his touch, “We’ll see,” he says. George pulls away and closes the dressing room door behind him.

“So, what do you think?” Martha asks, as she puts away her phone and they resume the walk down the hallway to his office.

“About what? Ben?”

“Do you think he’s going to pull it off?”

Martha meets even eyes with him. He takes her hand and gives it an affectionate squeeze as he thinks the question over. She presses a kiss to his bicep. “Well,” he says, after a few moments of thinking, “I think that he’s more than capable. That he’s worked his butt off, and that he’s certainly got the talent and the capability. I don’t know what the performance is actually going to look like. And even if it’s the best show he’s ever put on in his life..…”

Martha looks up at him, knowingly. “You can’t control what the New York Times is going to say about it.”

“We have to be ten times better than _good_ to escape being called ‘Man Lake,’ or whatever disgusting thing they’ve decided to call it.”

He opens the door to his office and dumps himself in the big chair behind his desk. Martha leans on the desk next to him for a moment and kisses the top of his head. He takes in the cramped office - more thumb-tacked newspaper clippings, pictures of other renditions of their play, photo of his cast, anatomy diagrams of feet and legs. There’s a whole wall of practice costume designs, because Odette wearing a tutu was out before Day 1, even before it was Ben.

The beginning of nausea churns in his stomach. He’s always known the risk of this thing, and it’s always been easy to compartmentalize and ignore. Harder now, that it’s so close. He thinks about shithead journalists waking up and drinking coffee and dreading having to watch his show, and a smirk twists on his lip.

“What is it?” Martha asks, as walks over to the coffee machine, sticks a coffee capsule into it, and presses the button.

“I was thinking about how I hope all the journalists are completely dreading coming to the show. Most of them aren’t really dance people. It’s too bad they don’t have some One Direction concert to attend or something.”

Martha laughs. “There’s no accounting for taste,” she says. There’s a moment, and then her face goes serious. “You know, no matter what anyone says, you’ve done an amazing job with this. No one expected you’d get a quarter of the way here, and every time someone was right there to put you down. And today every significant paper in the country is here to see you, and your opening night tickets are sold out and going for triple their cost on Stubhub. So fuck the press.”

He draws a hand over his face at length and lets loose a long sigh that might have expressed that, as much as he would have liked, the words weren't so helpful. In his office, with the door closed, he’s allowed to be concerned. It’s almost relaxing, to worry about it.

He hears the coffee machine run again. “I know,” he says, after a few moments. Then, picking himself up out of the little nervousness hole he was in, he looks up at her and smiles an easy smile. “You know, without you, this wouldn’t ever have existed either. You know that. Maybe I haven’t thanked you enough for agreeing to be part of this wild project.”

“Easy, George,” Martha teases, and she picks up the second coffee cup, adds sugar, and sets it on his desk, “I know what happens to people you take a liking to. I’m well past the point where I can practice until I’m slipping on my own sweat.”

He just laughs at that, and sips the coffee, perfectly made, as always.

“I knew when I married you that there would be boyfriends involved, and I don’t mind that one bit,” she continues, after a moment, “But being coaxed out of retirement, teaching adult men to dance en pointe, and then putting on a Swan Lake with a male Odette….now _that_ , I did not expect.”

“I suppose it’s too late for either of us to back out now,” George replies, with a grimace.

“We aren’t going to need to back out, George,” Martha says, and she wraps one delicate arm around his shoulders and squeezes him, not unlike he might do to one of his boys, “Because you are going to be even more famous, for putting on the most amazing radical show ever.”

"I could do that," George mutters, sinking back down into his very comfortable, nervous hole, "Or I could ruin everything I've worked for and become a laughingstock until the day I die, and spoken of as the very example of why you should never do anything interesting or independent, and I will have to heroically announce my retirement to a group who knows I'm only retiring because no one will ever finance anything I think of, ever again."

Martha doesn't bother to dignify that with a response, just sips her coffee and shakes her head. "It's been a while since you had such a catastrophic meltdown."

"It's a good thing we weren't married, then," George says, and then he opens the drawer of the office desk. A frown creases across his lips, and then a sigh, "Where did Gil put my cigarettes?"

"He threw them away, but I hid another pack for you with the extra coffee. Don't tell him I bought you new ones, and don't smoke around him. He gets grumpy and complains to me about it."

George slowly stands and opens the dresser, reaching back behind the coffee capsules and finding the cardboard rectangle. He bites open the plastic and tosses it in the garbage. "If I stopped doing everything Gil didn't like about me, I'd be drinking his terrible coffee and downing whatever that disgusting bacteria drink he thinks contributes to him." He puts his jacket back on and puts the carton in his pocket. "I'm glad I married you and not him."

“I say you can smoke, and I've got fifteen years on him and a wedding ring.”

"You're the best wife a man could ask for," George says, and kisses her head again as he moves back towards the door, "He's got the documentary guys with him, right? Make sure he knows to keep them off Ben's radar. I'm sure they'll want to talk to him and my goal is to not have Ben throw up anymore today.”

"He knows, and if doesn't, I'll tell him," she replies, and she takes his arm and wraps it around him. There's a squeeze, tender, and she stands up on her toes and presses a kiss to the side of his mouth. "Everything is going to be amazing."

"I'm sure good at pretending I think that, aren't I?" George replies, and leaves Martha in the office, closing the door behind him to find a secret alley.

 

***

 

Two slow cigarettes later, he's feeling more relaxed. There's nothing he can do, at this point, he tells himself. They've worked their asses off, and things will turn out well, because if this damn thing was going to go to hell in a handbasket, it would have gone worse a lot before this. He turns and opens the alley door back to the theatre, leaves his coat on the coat hook there. At least then maybe he'll only smell marginally like unfiltered tobacco, and Gilbert will only give him a marginally disapproving look.

The place is beginning to fill up. George already knows what scenes they're going to practice, but they've still got a little time before everyone shows up in their costumes. He steadies his whirling thoughts. It's funny, to think he'd rather be in the studio. This venue's unfamiliar to him, and they've only started doing practice here in the previous two weeks. He's lucky to have a good head for directions.

He see the end pole of the boom mic around the next corner and sighs. He doesn't really want to deal with the documentary guys right now, but it doesn't look like there's going to be a choice. He can't believe that he agreed to let these annoying cameramen into his practices, into his office, into his conversations with his dancers and financiers and stagehands. Never again, he promises himself. Either this will be a catastrophe and no dance company will ever want to make a documentary again, or it will be successful and he can suggest they film shows he hates, as subtle punishment. Either way, the financiers liked the idea, and so did the major donors, so _Yes, of course I wouldn't mind an annoying camera up my ass, Mr. Laurens_ was obviously the answer. He might have actually prefered the colonoscopy.

When he turns the corner, Gilbert is talking about day-of rehearsal to the camera, in a tour of their morning-of pre-chaos. There aren't enough people here for things to turn into a whirlwind just yet, but they're getting close. Gilbert is telling a story about a previous production they did and how exciting day-of can be. He remembers the story and almost having a heart attack regarding a large quantity of missing costumes that had been placed in an abandoned makeup room.

The bright-eyed dancer sees him over the camera, and a huge smile lights up his face. George feels the remainder of his anxieties twist smaller; he always feels more capable with Gilbert there. They've known each other for a long time.

"Bonjour! The man of the hour! Perhaps behind Tallmadge, I suppose," Gilbert says, and the camera guy and the boom mic guy turn to him. "Good morning, George. How are you feeling? Are you ready to make the New Yorker ball up their magazine and stuff it down their own throats?" Gilbert clenches his fist, makes a vicious little smile that never fails to brighten George's mood. "I, for one, am quite ready to be seduced."

"Good morning, Gil," George says, evenly, because he agreed to these goddamn cameras and that means giving Gilbert a kiss is out of the question. "I don't know if I'm ready to choke anyone with a magazine. I am, however, ready for the best show I've ever produced in my life."

"Well, that will have to do!" Gilbert says, and gives him a good morning kiss on the cheek, as much as they can with the possibility of the public catching some sight of this. George has been assured, through several levels of people, that it will be a piece of art very approving and favorable regarding its subject. _It better be,_ George thinks, and the camera guy asks him questions about the morning, and the show. George answers them and looks forward to the day where he can go back to having no press, no matter what they call themselves, backstage.

"Gil," he says, once he's finished standing for an impromptu interview, "Martha wants to talk to you. She was in my office, but I don't know where she is now. And don't bother Ben. You know how he gets."

"We can hardly be disturbing our most delicate flower on the day for his heroism to be in full view!" Gilbert exclaims, so overdramatic that George has to bite back the laugh, "I will find my beautiful queen and see what she wants. I also want to talk to you later, so don't run away." He leans in and presses a kiss to George's cheek, "By the way, my very handsome choreographer, you stink. Where did you get more cigarettes?"

"Enough," George says, and touches his shoulder, because the camera feels like a weight on his spine.

Gilbert looks at him, reads him like a book, and takes a step back, "Is there anything else you might need me for before rehearsals?"

"Just be yourself," George replies, "You've done this before, you know what to do." His eyes flick up to the camera guys. “Why don’t you take the camera guys to see Knox? I’m sure there’s plenty of stage managing currently going on.”

“They must pay you a lot to be so brilliant,” Gilbert says, and he gestures to the camera guys and walks past him. George always feels a lot of relief when he’s nowhere near the documentary crew. Funny, all those years of stage performance and now this, and it’s one idiot with a camera that makes him feel like he’s a step away from embarrassing himself. Putting the camera guys on the stage will get them out of his hair, at least for now.

Christ. Maybe he should be more concerned about his own stomach, and not Ben’s. He puts his head down and turns back to the alley, snatching the cigarette pack out of his pocket and lighting another outside.

It’s funny, that everything comes down to this. He thinks back to the hours of practice, his shouting and the determination of his dancers. He thinks about getting to the studio at six in the morning with Ben, and by noon his boy is bruised and his feet are bloody. He thinks about Martha’s lessons on dancing basics, on elegance, on being a princess. He chuckles, when because she danced circles around him, and his boys were so angry about it he wanted to laugh. He thinks about Gilbert watching some videoed version of the production with him, contributing to his thinking out loud about it.

He thinks about collecting his group out of nothing. _I’ve got a wild idea. You in?_

_For you, George?_ His friends say, and then he has a stage manager and a personal assistant and a Seigfried. He has lighting done cheap, and set design, and new costumes. He can convince people to donate to him on force of will alone. Here he is, getting out his anxiety in a shady alley, because everyone else looks at him to believe this is going to work.

He puts the cigarette out under his foot. Camera guys should be gone now. He hangs the jacket up and zips the pocket, then sits in his office with his office door open, solidifying his rehearsal plans.

 

***

 

They do dress rehearsals, without the makeup. George admires Ben’s costume - cut thin to him, the embroidered feathers, the delicate design of it. He’s seen it on his boy before, but it looks even more real now. He watches Ben’s narrow fingers as they extend, trying to seduce Gilbert’s Siegfried. Gilbert’s eyes are amazed, lovestruck. George thinks about all the times he held Ben up through those lifts and adjusted his posture.

They look _good_. They look good and George carefully restrains his excitement. During practice Ben looks fine, even nails some of the more difficult combinations he was struggling with yesterday. George even takes it easy on the group as a collective, because at this point, yelling won’t get him anywhere. He needs every one of them to show up as the best dancer they can be, needs them thinking they’re at the top of their game. He fixes some hand positions and makes comments about pointed toes and smiles and faces, but in truth, most of him feels very settled, resolved. These are his dancers. They are going to perform, and he knows in every fiber of his being that he’s done the best by them that he can, no matter how cruel it might have seemed, sometimes.

George is sweaty and tired from practicing, and he’s not even the one who’s done most of the work. First, just Ben and Gilbert - his favorite sort of practice. It’s easy, where he can touch them, his Odette and his Siegfried, where he watches them stare at each other with affection that he thinks they’ll be able to feel in the back of the venue. It’s miles ahead of when Gilbert nearly dropped Ben halfway through a lift. A long time since they were watching each other uneasily and George was wondering how anyone would ever believe that Ben could actually seduce Gilbert.

But now. Now, Ben teases Gilbert with the pads of his fingers. Now they dance close, like Gilbert can’t think of anything better than being in Ben's arms, like it’s Ben’s only dream to have Gilbert. It’s a good thing, George thinks, that the sight of them dancing stirs heat in his stomach. He’s biased, maybe, but still.

Then, a few other members of the cast. The Swan Queen, and Rothbart, the evil sorcerer. Then the _corps de ballet_ , and then adding some tricky lighting and other stage cues, until they’re doing the whole ball scene, and George has completely bought into Ben’s act, the way he can make himself seem so delicate and beautiful and attractive. George thinks, crazily, about doing some of the lifts instead of Gilbert.

He makes a waving sort of _stop_ gesture, at the end of the scene. Ben comes out of it like he’s been in a trance, and sets himself somewhat heavily onto the floor, his legs stretched out in front of him, Gilbert next to him. The rest of the company sits, taking their cue.

For a second it’s just him standing, and taking in all his dancers, and he feels the pride swell hot in his chest. His show. This is his show, and his dancers, and how good they look _in rehearsal_. Only his well-hardened ability to keep his face even stops the whole thing from bowling him over.

“You should give a speech,” Ben says, grinning an exhausted, winded grin at him. Ben smiling means Ben isn’t about to pass out from anxiety, so that’s good. But they’ve still got a couple of hours to go, so he’s not out of woods yet.

“I’m not very good at speeches,” he replies.

“Come on, George,” Gilbert says, and he tilts his head. “Ben wants you to give a speech. You deny your precious Odette?”

It’s a secret chastisement, and he knows it.

“Okay,” he says, and he gestures everyone closer, even the stagehands and the lighting and sound guys. He takes another breath, looks at the men and women who made his crazy dream an actual production. “We all know what everyone expects out of this production. We’ve read the press, we’ve talked to the reporters, we’ve seen the parody television. But I know, very confidently, that all of that is one big steaming load of shit. I have never seen any company work as hard as everyone has. I’ve never seen any company embrace something so radical, so completely. And I know that the people that see this show won’t think it’s a parody, or a joke, or a gimmick. They will look at this and be dazzled by the work of art that it is. They will wonder why no one else tried something that looks so incredible. And they will spill pages and pages and pages of ink talking about how amazing you are. And I know that tonight, and every show afterwards, will be the most amazing show any of us have ever performed.” A beat. “I want to thank everyone for buying into this. And I’m so proud of everyone for the effort they’ve put into it. So thanks, and I know how great the show is going to be tonight. So. Thanks.”

There’s an awkward, uncomfortable pause. Gilbert stands. “No,” he says, in the silence, “We want to thank you for coming up with this idea, and all the hours you’ve put into this, the thinking, and the yelling, and the work.”

“Yeah,” Ben agrees, from the ground. “Thanks.” And he claps once, and twice, and soon the whole company is giving him a little applause, and he bows his head, just a little, hiding a proud smile.

 

***

 

90 minutes to go. The stage is set. The flowers have been designed. The costumes have all been checked for rips and tears. What’s left is the knot in George’s stomach and Martha checking the boxes of ballet shoes. His resolve is hardened like fired clay now; the nausea is distant. Everyone in the hallway that he passes - and it’s a chaotic crowd now, makeup artists and set designers and backstage people and dancers - looks at him like a nervous horse and calms. _George knows this will go well, so it will._ He always looks back at this version of himself with awe. Ben sometimes seems shocked with how well he dances, when he watches recordings of his own shows. Maybe this is his version of that.

Speaking of. His head dancer is nowhere to be found, which is somewhat of a cause for concern. He was fine after the little speech, but then George had to spend some extra time with the four little swans, and now it seems a foreboding sign that Ben can’t be found anywhere. All of Ben’s balance, George thinks to himself, went into his feet and not his head.

A search of dressing rooms yields nothing, and neither does a round of casual _Have you seen Ben? No problem, just wondering._ Nothing bothers him right now, of course. The fact that the single most important part of the production is missing is not a big deal at all.

After he's made two laps around the regular backstage area, he begins opening random doors, finding some mysterious closets, old costumes, a variety of janitorial equipment, and no Odette. It’s only by accident that he discovers the basement door. The basement is musty, unused, so badly lit that George feels for the railing before taking the steep steps. When he shuts the door behind him, the chaotic murmur of backstage conversation is muted completely.

This has the additional benefit of allowing him to hear a person rustling in the semidarkness. He waits till his eyes adjust, and then out of nowhere appears a man lying on the concrete floor.

“Ben,” George says.

The figure groans.

“You should probably not be lying on the secret basement floor 90 minutes before the show.”

The figure groans again, but sits up, and then slowly stands. When it comes closer, it reveals itself definitely to be Ben, in fact. Even though George can barely see, the tension is evident.

“I can’t do it,” Ben says, to the ground. “I’m going to make a complete fool of myself. I’m going to ruin you. I’m going to drag this whole thing into the ground. I don’t know why you gave me this role.”

“You’re amazing, and you’re going to do fine,” George says. He runs his hand over the wall behind him and stumbles across a lightswitch. Most of bulbs are burnt out, though at least it’s enough to see Ben’s anguish written clear across his face, along with the various abandoned costumes molding and set pieces with their chipping paint.

“How do you know?”

“Because I know.”

Ben sighs.

“Come here,” George says, and Ben listens, and presses his head into George’s shirt. George knows Ben is listening to the calm beat of his heart, wishes he could make it louder to steady his boy. “There. Is that better?”

“A little,” Ben says, into his shirt. He takes a couple of steps back, leans against the cool concrete of the dark basement wall. Ben comes with him, his hands wrapping around George's waist, clenching and unclenching against his back.

"You've already made me so proud," he says, into Ben's hair, "You know how amazing I think you are, and everyone else feels the same."

"I know, I know," Ben mutters, "I just, I can't -- _the New Yorker_ , George. The New York Times. I've never done anything like this. Before this show, I was just some nobody. And now I'm.....this."

George wraps his arms loosely around Ben. "And now you're my most beautiful swan." He takes a deep breath, considers the options laid out for him as objectively as he can. Chemical solutions to Ben's dramatics, obviously, are out. But his boy is obviously suffering, at present. Most of the time, he comes out of these funks on his own, although so close to the show, it's dangerous proposition. There is another option, but to think of bleeding off all that energy, and so soon, and in this dark, musty basement, and those documentary guys could appear at any moment...

Ben groans in anguish into George's chest.

"Hey," George says, and Ben makes a noise of acknowledgement, "Look at me."

Ben looks up at him, even gorgeous in the semidarkness.

"You're going to be perfect. We both know how hard you've worked for this."

"I just..." Ben mumbles, and then he drops his head again, as if he can melt into George's skin to escape himself.

Emergency measures, George decides, are without a doubt necessary, given the circumstance that appear to be occurring at this very moment. He's seen enough Ben meltdowns by this time that he can tell when one's forming, like a hurricane off the coast. So his hands slide to Ben's hips, and with a bit of pressure Ben turns around, until his backside is against George's front. They've been here so many times, his hands here, Ben's body against his. It's hard to count the places and times now: the studio, mid-practice; George's bed; Ben's dressing room, with the door locked; George's office. It's familiar and sort and wonderful, and Ben melts obligingly against him, his body remembering even as his mind whips itself around in circles.

"How do you feel?" George murmurs, bending his head so he can speak directly into Ben's ear. He feels the little shiver vibrate through Ben's body, knows the press of Ben's body against him. "What can I do for you?"

Ben makes a breathless little noise in the bottom of his throat, and lets the muscles in his neck relax as his head lolls back against George's chest. There's a long silence, where George is only listening to Ben's breathing evening out as he relaxes into being held. "George," Ben says, and George loves how his name sounds in that moment, the wringing desire, the desperation, the devotion. George's hands tease across Ben's thighs and Ben whimpers a beautiful little whimper. George's fingers find the crease between Ben's thigh and his groin, and the whimper twists into a needy moan.

"George," Ben says again, and his hands cover George's, move one to the bulge in his tights. George gives him a tender squeeze and Ben moans again, keeps George's hand there.

"You're going to be so beautiful out there," George says into his ear, stroking him through the tights, "I know how good you're going to look. How amazing your body is going to be. No one knows how graceful you are like me. If I say you're going to be perfect, then you're going to be perfect."

One of Ben's hands reaches back and grabs his hip, as if to try and pull him closer. His breathing is loud, matches the rhythm of the roll of his hips into George's hand. "I just want to be good for you," he says.

"You are very good for me," George replies, and he flattens his palm, lets Ben grind his hips against him as he likes. Ben's hand wraps around his wrist and holds him there, and George's other hand wraps around Ben's chest, keeping them close, so Ben can feel George's cock pressing against him. "Can't you tell how good you are? How proud I am of you? How much I approve of everything you do, how wonderful I think you are?"

Ben nods a quick, desperate nod, and then pulls George's hand to the waistline of his tights.

"Tell me," George says, into his ear, and nips his earlobe. Ben whimpers, and presses back against George, grinds his ass against him. "Words," he says, more firmly, and bites harder.

"Please touch me," Ben says, like it has to be forced out of him, "Please, I need you."

"I'm here," George replies, and he works Ben's tights down to his thighs, which has the pleasant addition of making it really hard for him to move at all. Ben's cock is hot and hard in his hand, and he strokes him tenderly. "I got you. I know how wonderful you are, how beautiful you are. You've worked so hard, danced so beautifully for me. I'm so proud of you already." He draws his his thumb over the head of Ben's cock, listening to Ben's moans. "You know that, right? That I think you're strong, and beautiful, and elegant?"

Ben nods, and George gives him a sharp squeeze. "Words."

"I know that I'm strong, and beautiful, and elegant," Ben chokes out, and George resumes his pace, a little quicker now, tight how Ben likes it.

"What else did I say?"

"That I've worked so hard. And you're proud of me."

“I’m so proud of you."

“You’re so proud of me.”

“Good,” George purrs in his ear, and he grinds his hips against Ben, liking the moan he gets in response. “You can even feel it, how wonderful I think you are. Can’t you?”

Ben nods, and then, remembering himself, says, “Yes, I can feel it. I know. I want it, so bad.” He pushes back.

“No, not right now,” George replies, because 90 minutes before a show is not when you fuck your lead dancer, “But later, I promise. After you’ve shown everyone else how gorgeous you are, how beautiful you are, how good a dancer you are……” He cranes his neck to lick a stripe up Ben’s neck, and Ben arches against it. “Then I’ll give you everything you want.”

“I just want you,” Ben pleads.

“You have me,” George replies, “Here I am, wrapped around you.”

Ben nods, furiously, and he clutches the forearm wrapped around his chest, his breath coming in heaving pants. “Please,” he begs, “Please, I just...George, George, _George._ ”

George wiggles out of the grasp, finds Ben’s wrist and pulls his hand down. “Here,” he says, listening to those delicious whines and whimpers, “I want you to come in your hand for me. Can’t make a mess, can we?”

Ben shakes his head, digs the fingers on the remaining hand back into George’s forearm when it returns. George resumes his strokes, whispers into Ben’s ear about how wonderful he is, about how lovely he is, about how he’s the most beautiful swan that George has ever seen. Ben comes into his own hand with a bit-off gasp, hips kicking up as George strokes him through his orgasm until Ben’s using the arm wrapped around him to hold himself up.

“Good work,” George says, and Ben nods weakly, still catching his breath, “Might want to clean your hand up. Let me see.”

Ben gets his feet under him. George releases him with evident reluctance only to watch his hands find Ben’s hips, automatic. Ben turns so they’re looking at each other, then sucks on his fingers, leisurely. It’s beautiful, George thinks to himself, as he watches, eyes half-lidded. With his other hand, Ben goes for his pants, but George stops him with a hand on his wrist.

“Later. I promise,” he says, as he moves Ben’s hand away, “Do you feel better?”

Ben nods. “I always do,” he says, once he’s taken licked the last remains from his hand, “Thanks. For everything, again. I know it’s silly, but.”

George puts a finger to Ben’s lips. “I’m proud of you,” he says, for the umpteeth time, and Ben smiles. “I don’t know what time it is, but you should probably find your costume and your makeup. I’m sure Deb will be mad if you’re late.”

“Come with me,” Ben says, and he pulls his tights up, adjusting himself in them. George nods, because what Ben needs now is for him to be agreeable. The hallway is crowded enough that they melt into it when Ben opens the door, and only now George can see how pink his cheeks are. Deb, the makeup artist, will probably give him a shifty look later. Oh well.

 

***

 

He can hear the murmur of the seated crowd behind the curtain and paces on the stage, steps between the arranged _corps de ballet_ dancers. One final look-over, to catch any stray threads or missed buckles or unhighlighted eyebrows. He takes a breath and gives himself, more than anyone else, a final nod. Then, he disappears off the stage into the wings. Ben, make-upped and dressed, is smiling at him, his balance resettled.

“Are you ready?” George murmurs into his ear, and hears the crowd quiet down. He touches Ben’s hip, familiar. He traces the feather patterns of the costume with the pad of his finger.

“Of course,” Ben says. He squeezes George’s hand at his hip. George looks at their hands together, and then looks up to see light flooding the stage where curtain comes up.


End file.
